Snowpack
by 2ns
Summary: Many pretend to be ignorant of what Ramsay Bolton did to Lady Sansa, but her maid knows. The entire staff knows. The morning after Sansa's wedding to the Hound, Sansa's handmaiden is terrified of what such a man could do to a woman. She nervously takes them their breakfast, and is pleasantly surprised at the state of her mistress. One-shot companion to Blood & Banners. SanSan.


Fanfiction only. I own no part of Game of Thrones.

Snowpack

"I won't do it."

"You always take milady's breakfast to her. Now off with you!"

Silf edged around the corner to find the orphan waif twisting her hands together and cowering beneath the glare of Winterfell's cook. She glanced up at Silf guiltily and whispered, "He might still be in there."

Silf exchanged a look with the old cook, Tara. Tara's lips tightened and she looked away, watching her own gnarled hand stir the vat of parritch. The lords strutting through the halls of Winterfell might pretend to be ignorant of what had happened in the lady's bedchamber when the Boltons had held the keep, but the household staff knew. It had been their job to scrub the blood out of the sheets, and Silf's job to strip them. When she dressed her trembling lady, Silf had seen the wasteland Ramsay Bolton had made of Sansa's flesh.

In the days that had led up to this wedding, Winterfell's staff had become tense and quiet. Lady Sansa's personal attendants had learned that a lord could do anything he pleased to his lady, so long as it was covered by her long sleeves and skirts. They were terrified to find out what an enormous brute like Sandor Clegane would do to his wife. The entire household was holding its breath. The men were nervous to find out what kind of master he'd be. The women were terrified of what he would do when he became bored with his new bride.

"Nonsense girl! Does he seem like the type of man to spend the night wrapped around a woman? He probably retired to his own chambers hours ago." Though Tara sounded sure enough, still she refused to meet their gaze.

Quietly, Silf took up the waiting tray. "I'll take it. Do you have the bowl of snowpack and towels ready?"

The cook turned her sad, brown eyes on Silf. "Aye, I have it ready. I hope you don't need it."

Silf nodded. The scullery waif helped her balance the bowl of snowpack on one hip and the heavy tray on the other.

She was surprised at the variety of food piled on the tray. A great steaming bowl of parritch and cream drizzled with honey, fresh bread, preserves and butter, both soft and hard cheeses, several eggs cooked in their shells, and even a few thick slices of ham and thin strips of fried salt pork. Silf glanced up at the cook in astonishment.

The cook shrugged. "I've no idea what the man will eat, and I wasn't taking any chances. I've already sent one of the men at arms to his room with a similar tray." She glanced at a jug of ale beside the tray. "Don't forget the ale. I hear he's a drinker."

So heavily laden, Silf was barely able to negotiate the door out of the kitchens. The narrow stairs that led up to Lady Sansa's chamber were almost impossible to navigate. Though she made it without incident, Silf lost nearly half the bowl of snowpack on the stairs and sloshed the ale on her skirt. She hoped that what remained of the snow would be enough. Silf clamped her jaw together. She prayed to the Mother that she wouldn't need the snowpack at all.

Silf remembered vividly the first time Lady Sansa had asked her to fetch the snowpack. When she reached her lady's door the morning after Sansa's wedding to Bolton, the man at the door, Garrett, had looked a wreck. She could smell the stench of his rank sweat all the way down the corridor. Silf had wrinkled her nose at Garrett when she neared Sansa's room. His eyes looked haunted and he trembled beneath a sopping tunic, having sweated through it even in the cold hall.

As Silf had approached, Garrett stepped before the door and blocked her way. His chin had trembled. "I think . . . I think milady's dead."

"What?"

"I ain't never heard a woman scream like that, not ever. I think she must be dead, but I couldn't . . ." He sniffed and looked away. "She begged him to stop, and I tried to get in, but he'd barred the door. I banged on the door and demanded Lord Bolton to let me in. He opened the door and put a knife in me belly. He told me if I interrupted again, he'd have me flayed alive and left outside the walls for the beasts." He met Silf's eyes. "I know he'll do it."

Silf barely dared to breathe. "Is he still in there with her?"

"No. It's been hours since he left, but I still can't open the door and look."

Silf nodded. "You'd better call someone to help me."

When she entered the icy room, Silf at first had trouble finding Sansa. She finally found her huddled in a blood-stained shift crouching in the corner of the room farthest from the bed, wedged between the wall and a trunk.

"Milady! Are you alright?"

Sansa had nodded convulsively, staring wide eyed at the bed in the other corner of the room. Silf reached out to touch her, but Sansa jerked her arm away. She curled into her own body and began to sob quietly.

"You must be cold, milady. Where's your dressing gown?"

Sansa sniffed. "He had all my clothes taken away. He said if I pleased him, I could earn them back." She pressed her face into the cold stone and squeezed her eyes shut. Silf barely heard her whisper. "He said he'd be back in the morning, and I'd better be ready to earn my keep."

It had taken the better part of an hour, but Silf had finally been able to coax her mistress out of the corner. She washed Sansa's face and found her a clean shift, but she wasn't prepared for the horror that was revealed when Sansa finally relinquished her stained shift.

Barely an inch of Sansa's skin had escaped punishment. Silf could clearly see the imprints of Bolton's fingers and long, livid bruises crisscrossed Sansa's back. Silf didn't ask what Ramsay had beaten Sansa with. She didn't want to know. Her stomach twisted and she nearly vomited when she saw the dried blood smeared on her lady's thighs.

"Snowpack." Sansa had lifted glittering crystal eyes to Silf. "Would you bring me some snowpack?" Sansa's split lip trembled. "I hurt . . . so much."

Blessedly, Ramsay did not trouble Sansa again until that evening, and Silf had spent much of the day laying snowpack against Sansa's bruised skin in an effort to soothe her flesh and reduce the swelling. Since then, Silf had learned that Lady Sansa would need a large bowl of snow every morning with her breakfast.

Not that she could usually bear to eat. By the time the Boltons had been expelled from Winterfell, Sansa had been nearly skin and bone. Sansa had begun eating again once her brother had returned, and the color had returned to her cheeks. Surely, King Jon wouldn't allow Clegane to mistreat his sister as Bolton had done?

With every step down the corridor, Silf's stomach had twisted tighter as she imagined what might be awaiting her in her mistress's room. Her hand trembled, and the dishes on the heavy tray clinked and rattled against one another. When Silf approached Lady Sansa's door, Garrett was once again on duty, dozing on his feet. His head snapped up at the sound of her foot fall.

Silf glanced at Garrett. "How is it today?"

The guard glanced at the door drowsily. "Quiet."

Afraid to ask, she pressed, "How was it last night?"

He nodded thoughtfully. "Quiet."

Silf licked her lips nervously. "Is he still . . ."

Garrett nodded and quietly opened the door. "I think they must still be asleep. You can probably lay the fire and leave the breakfast without being noticed."

Silf held her breath until Garrett had closed the door behind her. She stepped into the soft dawn shadows, praying silently to the Mother that Lady Sansa was well.

Sansa was propped on pillows, the first tendrils of dawn filtering through the shuttered window beside her bed. Clegane snored softly on his wife's shoulder, and Sansa was using his broad shoulders to support her arm as she held up a small book, reading in the wan light. With her other hand, she idly combed her fingers through his hair. Clegane's arms were wrapped around Sansa's waist, and one of his enormous feet dangled off the bed. Even sprawled diagonally across it, it was much too short for his great height. The brindled furs and down blankets were discarded on the floor beside the bed, though Sansa had pulled the sheet up around them.

Silf was thoroughly relieved, but stunned nonetheless. She'd seen the many long looks that had passed between Clegane and Lady Sansa and thought she'd seen their fingers entwined and concealed in the folds of her mistress's skirt once, but she'd never really considered that theirs would truly be a love match. For weeks, idle talk had gotten louder and bawdier, suggesting all kinds of indecent things about Lady Sansa and her hideous new sworn shield. Silf herself had slapped a stable lad that was proclaiming that he'd seen Lady Sansa kissing Clegane in the stables after a ride. She couldn't imagine Lady Sansa's perfect lips pressed against the Hound's puckered and ravaged flesh, and was certain the lad was making up wild lies.

As Silf stood musing in the shadows, some of the melting snow pack dripped onto the floor with a loud, wet smack. Sansa looked up from her book. After glancing down at her sleeping husband, Sansa beckoned Silf to her. Silf paused to set down the ale and tray of food and left the bowl of snowpack on the seat of one of the chairs.

As she approached the bed, Silf couldn't help but sneak a glance at Clegane. Always coarse, snarling and glaring at anyone who came too close or questioned him, he exuded a sense of barely contained rage at all times. Silf had been terrified to find out what would be left of Sansa when that rage was unleashed on her mistress's body. Now, though, with the ruined side of his face pillowed on Sansa's breast, his brow smooth and his wide mouth soft in sleep, he looked much younger and almost . . . handsome.

Sansa had closed her book around one of her fingers and laid it on Clegane's back. Silf met her eyes nervously and whispered, "Are you well, milady?"

Sansa smiled slowly, warmly, and stroked a hand as far down Clegane's back as she could reach. "I'm very well, Silf."

"Are you cold, milady? Shall I lay the fire for you?"

Sansa shook her head. "I'll start it when I rise. I don't want to wake Sandor just yet. He never has the opportunity to sleep much past dawn, and I thought I'd let him enjoy it as long as he can."

Silf knelt by the bed. Glancing nervously at the dozing warrior in Sansa's arms, she murmured, "Milady, I've brought the snowpack, but some of it spilled on the way. Should I go get more?"

Clegane's brow creased and he stirred. Tenderly, Sansa stroked a thumb down his long face, and he settled against her shoulder with a deep sigh.

Sansa smiled. "No, Silf. I won't be needing the snowpack anymore. Sandor will kill any man that ties to lay his hands on me, and he'd die himself before striking me."

Glancing at the still steaming tray, she continued, "Thank you for bringing our breakfast, I'm famished." Silf handed Sansa a slice of the hard cheese that she knew her mistress favored. Sansa nibbled at it thoughtfully. "I won't need you the rest of the day, and tell Garrett to find breakfast and his own bed."

Silf's eyes widened in surprise. "You don't want a maid or a guard?"

Sansa smiled up at her maid. "I have everything I could ever ask for right here," Sansa locked her arms possessively around her sleeping husband's shoulders, "and I'm the safest Stark in the Seven Kingdoms."


End file.
